Jimin

Jimin was late. As always, though. The motorcycle stalled right at the school gate, leaving behind a dull rumble and the smell of gasoline. He took off his helmet, ran his hand through his disheveled blond hair, and slowly headed into the building. There was no point in rushing—the teachers had given up on him long ago anyway. Almost all of them.

But not her.

New. A literature teacher. Strict, beautiful, with a look that even he found hard to resist. He had seen her for the first time last week – and since then, it wasn’t music or the sound of a motor that had been running through his head, but lines from Wuthering Heights and some idiotic thoughts like “her voice sounds like poetry.”

He walked into the classroom without apology or explanation. He simply threw his helmet under the desk and plopped down in his usual seat. Silence fell over the room. The other students looked at him and then at the teacher.

.